Minou squeezed his arm, touched by the hope in his voice. ‘You have done nothing but wait, my love. The anniversary has come and gone, everyone is here assembled, June advances.’ There was another rumble of dry thunder, then a cuckoo calling. ‘There. No truer herald of the arrival of summer than that. There will be rain before nightfall.’
She heard him take a deep breath. ‘Minou, before we go in, there is something I must tell you … something I have wanted to say for some time.’
Minou felt her heart lurch. ‘You can tell me anything, you know that.’
‘Some weeks past, I learnt—’
‘Maman!’ their daughter shouted, leaning dangerously out from the casement overlooking the courtyard. ‘Hurry! We are all quite fatigued with waiting!’
‘Marta!’ Minou waved her hand. ‘It is not at all safe to hang out of the window like that, go back inside.’
‘Then come quickly.’
‘We will be there presently.’
Minou turned back to Piet. ‘Really, Marta is too bold. Quite fearless.’ She rested her hand on his cheek, feeling the stubble of his trimmed red beard, flecked with grey now, rough beneath her fingers. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me, mon coeur?’
Piet smiled. ‘No matter. It can wait. We are summoned!’
Minou laughed. ‘Mademoiselle Marta can be patient a moment longer.’
‘Not for all the violets in Toulouse would I try her patience further. We should go in.’
In the months and endless years to come, when Minou looked back, she saw this first quiet misunderstanding as the tipping point: that briefest of beats in time when – had Marta not called out – a different story might have been told.
But as Minou stood with her Piet in the upper courtyard of the château de Puivert on that day in June, she could not possibly have imagined how all the grief and pain she had suffered in the past would be as nothing compared to the loss and despair to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
The main family living room, the solar, occupied the entire length of the first floor of the castle. A generous and comfortable chamber, benefiting from the best of the afternoon light, it was one of the first alterations they had made when taking possession of the castle. Minou had demolished several internal walls and reconfigured the stairwells and corridors so that no memory of the old chamber – or the abuses that had taken place within it – remained.
Three tall double-casement windows with latticed lights, each framed by brocade curtains, looked south over the upper courtyard. Above the door, a heavy single curtain hung on a brass pole. In summer it was held back by a thick rope tie, and kept drawn in winter to keep out the icy winds sweeping down from the mountains. There was a limestone fireplace with two wooden settles positioned at right angles on either side of the hearth with several upholstered footstools and high-back chairs set about. At the far end, a large dining table of walnut with two long benches filled the space, with an answering dresser and chest where the table linen and crockery were stored.
What gave the chamber its particular character were the wall hangings. Filling the space from floor to ceiling were two tapestries, commissioned by Minou from a Huguenot weaver in Carcassonne: one was a representation of Puivert; another was an artist’s impression of Begijnhof, the religious community in Amsterdam nestled between Singel and Kalverstraat. A third, much smaller, was a family portrait completed last winter.
As Minou stood with Piet on the threshold, she enjoyed a rare moment of seeing her loved ones unobserved: her father Bernard, his old eyes clouded and unseeing now but his wisdom undimmed; her sister Alis with her dark Midi complexion and her wild black curls tamed into a long plait, her solid and sturdy frame speaking of strength more than grace; next, her brother Aimeric, also stocky and strong and, though twenty-three years to Alis’s seventeen, so alike her that they might be taken for twins. He stood in conversation with their Aunt Salvadora, her double-chins swaddled in her black widow’s hood. Finally, Marta and two-year-old Jean-Jacques, listening to their grandfather recite a story of chevaliers and the Carcassonne court in medieval times that Minou remembered from her own childhood days.
Where their daughter favoured Minou in her appearance – not least in having the same mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown – their son had Piet’s colouring: russet hair, green eyes and a freckled skin that owed more to his Dutch mother than his French ancestors.
Then the creak of a loose floorboard gave their presence away.
‘Enfin,’ cried Marta, throwing herself down from the window seat. ‘We are all quite worn out with waiting.’
‘You must learn to be patient, petite,’ Minou said fondly.
‘Aunt Salvadora says that in the royal rooms in the Louvre Palace, the most noble ladies wear skirts this wide.’ Marta spread her arms. ‘Too big to get through a doorway without turning sideways. Is that so? Because how would—’
‘That is not at all what I said,’ Salvadora objected. ‘I was explaining how the fashions of the court are intended to demonstrate the elegance and grandeur of the crown. Our noble king – and his sister and brothers – represent the best of France and, thus, must pay heed to the impression they give. In portraiture, as in their daily lives.’
Minou saw Aimeric and Alis exchange a look. They had no regard for the Valois court. Aunt Boussay was another matter. Despite her affection for her nieces and nephew – and theirs for her – Salvadora held true to the old faith in which she had been raised. Despite the rumours about King Charles, his tantrums and ill health – not to speak of the common knowledge that it was Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Mother, who truly ruled at court – Madame Boussay would hear no word of censure against the royal family. Her admiration remained steadfast.
‘The ladies and gentlemen of the Paris court wear elegant attire for official occasions, but dress with less grandeur for the everyday, like us.’ Minou gestured to the delicate family tapestry on the wall. ‘Papa does not wear his blue doublet with the silver slits except on special occasions, does he?’
Marta, considering herself wise at seven years old, mused: ‘Nor I my jewelled hood. It is for best only.’
‘Exactly so.’ Minou stroked her daughter’s cheek. ‘It is the same even in the Louvre Palace.’
The child nodded. ‘It is wise for even queens and princesses to have everyday clothes, for how else would they be able to play?’
Everyone laughed, even Salvadora, and Minou felt a surge of gratitude for the love and companionship they all shared. She glanced back at the tapestry. She and Piet were sitting clothed in gold thread and adorned in silver and jewelled beads: on cushions in front of them sat Marta in her bleached-white cap beside two-year-old Jean-Jacques in velvet breeches with his wooden rattle. The colours were vibrant and the stitching full of life, of movement. Though no bigger than a lady’s shawl, it was Minou’s favourite. Of all of the tapestries, it spoke most to who they were.
Were they to risk all this for Paris?
Minou pulled herself up at such a thought coming unbidden into her mind. Certainly, the journey would be long. Certainly, the steady pattern of their lives, which had been hard won, would be disrupted. But whatever discomforts they might endure, seeing Paris with their own eyes would surely be worth it? To stand before the mighty towers of the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame and witness history as it was made was not an honour to be missed.